Phoenix Ashes
by drarrysexual
Summary: Harry has been chosen to compete in the most dangerous Tournament of his life. Survival has never been an option for his District. But will the will of his fellow tribute and the wise words of his mentor change that? **A Drarry fic, M for later chapters**
1. Chapter 1

Harry had always hated the Tournament. The bloodlust. The desire to kill. The unexplained _want_ to feel someone else's blood on your hands. He hated that, hated what it did to people. He hated how so many wanted to be a part of it, _chose_ to be a part of it, and those who didn't were forced to go into it anyway.

Maybe that was what he hated most. Not the blood. Not the death. But the volunteers. The people who chose to be sacrificed like pigs for slaughter. The people who chose to slaughter the other people, the forced victims. Like it would bring them happiness. Or glory. Or pride. That's what sickened him most about the Tournament now. The brutality. When he was younger it was mainly because watching it made him feel queasy, damn near sick to his stomach with all of that blood and starvation on top of it all, but now that he'd reached seventeen, he didn't care much about blood. He'd seen a lot worse in his time in District 12.

But the voluntary tributes...they got him every year. He didn't close his eyes to avoid blood anymore. He closed them to avoid seeing the joy in spilling it.

There was always someone, though. In every district, at least one person who had secretly been training themselves for this their entire lives, for the day when they would be able to step up and say, "I volunteer as tribute," and then be shipped off to the Tournament to compete. And from there, they had to follow the whole cursed process. They were paraded around like royalty, given food and water and fancy clothes, and for a while, everyone up near the Ministry loved them. Worshiped them. Begged for their attention. They offered them money, sponsorship, sex, anything, _anything at all_ to get a taste of them before they were gone. But the glamour never lasted. Soon enough, the interviews got finished, the pretty clothes got put away, the makeup got washed off, and they were all thrust into the arena. Alone with nothing but themselves, a wand, and a rulebook.

It was disgusting.

The rules were simple - no Unforgivables. That was a given. It made it too easy. No immobilization spells of any kind - also a given. Basically anything that could give you the upper hand was taken away, including Tripping Jinxes which had been a source of controversy for years. You were allowed to Disarm, to get water for yourself (or use it as a weapon, as some tributes had done in the past), and to use simple Hexes: Stinging Hexes and the like that didn't do fatal damage but enough to seriously disadvantage who you were dueling. That wasn't the disgusting part, though. Duels happened all the time, even for fun.

It was the killing that made it wrong.

Everyone knew the curse. It was something whispered, not often spoken aloud. Even those who used it in the Tournament didn't like to say it. _Sectumsempra._

It was worse than any swear word; worse even than the killing curse. Once your opponent had fallen, surrendered, given up on fighting back, you said it - a simple slashing movement as if you were actually cutting them with a knife and they were gone.

They never took them away until they'd bled out.

It was supposed to be a reminder - magic is dangerous. Beware. Wizards are only safe when restricted. Wizards can only be trusted without their wands. Give them wands, and look what happens. Look who suffers. Look and see who the true animals are.

Harry hated it.

But no matter how much he hated it, the Tournament still came, year after year. The reaping still came year after year. They still chose two tributes. Year after year.

That was another thing that bothered him - how they chose the tributes. A long time ago, back before he had ever been born, they used to have criteria set for who the tributes could be. No one under seventeen. One boy. One girl. No one injured or severely disadvantaged. No one who had survived the Tournament before. That sort of thing, to keep the Tournament even and fair. But things weren't nearly as civilized now. Now anyone with known magical ability was entered into the game for a chance to play - regardless of age, mental state, or physical health. Volunteers were allowed to be asked for, but they couldn't be over twenty-five years old. There weren't any gender limitations now either. Two boys could go; two girls could go; one of each gender. A family could lose both of its children. A girl could lose both of her brothers. A mother could lose her two baby daughters. It was sick, and it was wrong, but the Ministry somehow got the idea around twenty years ago that limitations on who could be entered only held back the message they were trying to convey: all Wizards are dangerous. No matter who they are.

Not that it was all bloodthirsty killing. There was always a champion, sometimes even a pair of champions. The last District standing. That was one thing the Ministry never made the tributes do - they never had them kill anyone in their own District. If they were the last two standing, they both went home. They both survived.

Pairs rarely won, though. It was almost customary to take out at least one person from each District on the first day, just to be safe. But it wasn't unheard of. It had been managed before.

"Harry."

The young Wizard lifted his head, turned in the direction of the voice. In his bedroom doorway stood Sirius Black, the only person in District 12 to have ever made it out of the Tournament alive. And that was thirteen years ago, when they were still adjusting the rules to see which bloodthirsty tactics the audience responded to the least. Sirius had been smart - he'd hidden up in trees or in caves and used his talents as an Animagus to slip past the tributes who didn't know any better. It was really clever, honestly, but it was because of him that using your Animagus form was illegal now in the games. It was handled the same as the rest of the illegals now - if you were caught (and they were always caught) then you died. No one had ever escaped the Gamemakers in that sense. If you cast the wrong spell, it took about half a second before you were hit with _Sectumsempra_. No one ever figured out how they managed to get there so quickly; no one ever bothered to ask. They just knew that that was how it happened. It was a miracle Sirius hadn't been taken down for getting around the system, but Harry supposed that they couldn't kill a Wizard for being smart. That, at least, was unethical.

"Harry," Sirius said again quietly. "Come on. It's almost time for the reaping."

A lot of people in the District thought that Sirius was a little creepy. He was tall and thin and his eyes were so sunken in that he did look a bit skeletal. He had been handsome once before the Tournament - now he just looked haunted, like a ghost who forgot that he was supposed to leave the body he inhabited. He was also insanely quiet, a hunter through and through. He could walk through your entire house in the middle of the night, opening and closing every door, and you'd never hear him. He was a master of disguise, the most stealthy (and only) person to have ever outsmarted twenty-three other tributes long enough to survive the Tournament without killing a soul. But he'd seen the deaths. He'd seen the bloodlust. And everyone could see that he'd seen it. It was written all over his face, so on the whole, people tried to avoid him. But not Harry. Harry liked him. Sirius was one of the few people that showed real, genuine affection for him. He had been Harry's father's best friend before the mine accident that had taken both of his parents; he probably just felt obligated to take Harry in because of that. As a debt to James and Lily. But Harry didn't care. Any affection was better than none.

"I don't want to go," Harry replied to his guardian quietly, fiddling with the hem of one of Sirius's old suit jackets. He hated being dressed up, especially in public for something so cruel. Sirius gave him a tight smile.

"You know you can't miss it," he said in that same quiet tone, and then he grabbed Harry's arm to gently pull him up. Knowing he was right, Harry let him.

The pair walked out to the town square together, Sirius leading Harry with a firm hand, and found a nice empty spot to stand together while a woman with big blonde curls on stage started setting everything up. There were three chairs on the stage - one for the mayor, the other two for the tributes. In front of those, on a big white pedestal, sat a giant ornate glass ball filled to the top with tiny slips of paper. Each held a District 12 witch or wizard's name, written in careful handwriting to ensure its legibility. In a few minutes, the woman on stage would make an opening remark, invite the mayor to plunge his hand into that glass, and change two peoples' lives forever. And she'd do so with a smile.

The woman's name was Rita Skeeter, and though she was in fact a witch herself, she was so thoroughly "human", so nastily journalistic, that she had managed to somehow work her way up with the Ministry and avoid the Tournaments altogether. Of course, being a witch, they didn't assign her to any District that had any real worth to it; she had been stuck with District 12, the coal district, left to walk through the filthy streets once a year and take two filthier Wizards back with her to the Ministry to prepare for the Tournament. Overall, not a bad job, and she had a heart just small enough to be able to manage to live with herself for taking it. Harry hated her more than anyone.

"Who do you think it's going to be this year?" Sirius asked Harry quietly, starting the annual bet that the two had been making since the beginning. See, there actually weren't enough witches and wizards in town to fill that giant glass ball; there was no way there were that many in any District, not with the Tournament happening every year. If they combined every name of every living witch and wizard now under the jurisdiction of the Ministry, the ball still wouldn't be full. So they had to come up with a different program.

Every time you did a misdeed around town, your name was added to the ball. Every time you couldn't pay your rent or for food, you paid instead with an appropriate amount of Tournament entries. If you needed water, you paid in entries. If you needed heat, you paid in entries. What people lacked in currency they made up for in little slips of paper with their names written on them, and every year, they always filled the ball right up to the very top. And they left the papers in there, always crushing them, always making room, and just getting rid of the names of those who had died. There were people in town who had their name entered in that ball hundreds of times. Some a few dozen. Harry was lucky in that he lived with Sirius, so he was pretty much provided for and tried to stay out of trouble as much as possible. His name was only entered fifteen times, one mandatory slip for each year they had known he had magical ability. Sirius, having already won the Tournament before, wasn't in that ball at all. The rest of the town, though, especially the more rebellious troublemakers didn't have their luck. And though it was awful, every year, Harry and Sirius liked to sit back and see if they could predict who would be drawn. A little bit of a wager to make sitting through the ceremonies a little more bearable.

"Blaise Zabini," Harry said quietly, offering up his best bet. Blaise had always been an eternal thorn in the Ministry's side, spitting at Aurors, stealing from their supplies, resisting arrest, mouthing off. Harry had always admired him, his determination to do what he felt was ethically right, and Blaise never failed to be forced into the crowd at the reaping with wands pointed at him in all directions in case he tried to run away. And he also never failed to call the Aurors still working under the now Muggle run Ministry cowards. If anyone had made their list after all these years, it was definitely Blaise. It was a miracle he hadn't been chosen already.

Sirius scanned the crowd, looking for Zabini's usual entourage. Sure enough, there they were at the front of the crowd - ten Aurors and in the middle, Blaise Zabini, looking as smug as ever, like he knew something that the Auror's didn't. Sirius shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised, but I have a feeling they're waiting on him. Until they can take him away when they think it'll hurt him." Harry nodded but didn't change his vote. Blaise had been pissing off the Ministry for ten years. His name probably made up the majority of that ball; he was going to be drawn one day. There was no way in Hell he couldn't be.

"My vote goes to Narcissa," Sirius said after a few minutes. Immediately, Harry's eyes went to the back of the crowd, where the less wealthy tended to hang around. He caught sight of two blonde heads, a rarity in District 12 in which everyone was mainly dark-haired. And one of those blonde heads belonged to Narcissa Malfoy, who had lost her husband in the same mine accident that killed Harry's parents, and who was considered to be the saint of the town. She was a launderer and a pair of extra hands when you needed an odd job done, a miracle worker almost, a complete saint by District 12 standards. Harry furrowed his brow. There was no reason at all for Narcissa's name to be drawn from that ball. No reason at all except for her age.

"She's a saint, though," Harry muttered back, and Sirius shook his head.

"It's not her they're after."

Up on stage, Rita cleared her throat before Harry could question what his guardian had meant. It didn't matter now. Their bets had been placed; the reaping had begun.

"Welcome, District 12," she began in a high, loud voice, a voice that scratched at the back of Harry's mind like nails on a chalkboard, "to the 56th annual Witch Hunt!" She paused for applause, but they never came. Witch Hunt. The proper name. Harry had always hated it; all the Wizards did. It was why they never called it that. They never called it the Hunt. That was a Ministry name. To Wizards, it was the Tournament, a twisted abomination of what used to be the time honored tradition of the Triwizard Tournament. Only the Triwizard Tournament was nothing compared to the Hunt. No, not even close.

But it seemed to hurt a little less to let your family and friends go to a Tournament rather than a Hunt. So they never once called it the Witch Hunt. Well, no one except Rita.

She then dived into a long-winded monologue about the dangers of magic, the power of the Ministry and how the Muggles overpowered the dangerous Wizards about sixty years ago, how they now used this day to make people believe that magic is not, in fact, might. She spoke of wand makers being taken out of commission (a fancy phrase for "murdered") and every living Wizard's wand being snapped. She spoke of the formation of the Hunt, the twisted rules they changed in the Triwizard Tournament so there really could be just one champion. She even went into the history of the rule changes. But she was speaking to a deaf audience. They had all heard it before. Every last one of them. They knew the story like the back of their hand; they weren't listening to it now.

Finally, though, Rita seemed to run out of steam and turned over the stage to the mayor - she would give the speech, but she wasn't going to put anyone's blood on her hands. That weighed on the mayor, on Cornelius Fudge, on a man whose long terms lead him to alcoholism and baldness. As he rose unsteadily to his feet, Harry thought that he had never pitied a man more.

The crowd all held their breath as Fudge's hand crept past the top of the ball. His hand fished around inside for a while, moving the papers around carefully, before he pulled out a single white strip and surveyed the name with a frown.

"Narcissa Malfoy."

Harry's eyes immediately snapped to Sirius, ready to tell him that he had been right, but the grim look on his guardian's face stopped him. Sirius wasn't looking at him; he was looking toward the back, where the two blonde heads had been before, and now the woman stepped forward while the man by her side pulled on her arm and started to pull her back, silent save for the look on his face. But Narcissa Malfoy was not a woman to be swayed, not even by her son. She pulled out of his grip as Aurors held him back and made her march out toward the stage.

"NO," her son cried out, fighting against the hold of the Aurors. "NO, YOU CAN'T DO THIS."

Everyone was silent. Quiet tears streamed down Narcissa's face as she continued her walk, but she never once turned around to face her son.

"NO, I WON'T LET YOU."

His voice sent chills running down Harry's spine. He was struggling against the Auror's still, thrashing around wildly.

"I VOLUNTEER," he shouted, his tone pleading, his expression desperate. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE IN HER PLACE."

Narcissa stopped walking. Harry's heart stopped.

"I beg your pardon?" Rita said from on stage. No one in District 12 ever volunteered. They were a mining district; sacrifices to the Tournament, not winners. Well, save for Sirius, who got by on sheer luck. If your name was picked, no one ever took your place. No one ever volunteered.

Until now.

"I volunteer," Draco Malfoy said again, chest heaving as the Aurors around him began to back away.

"Well I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," Rita said from his place next to the large glass ball, "but now is not the time to ask for volunteers. Just let your mother come on stage and then we'll ask for volunteers and-"

"Oh Rita, what's the harm?" Fudge interrupted, tapping his fingers impatiently against the glass. This was at least a death that would not be on his hands. "The boy already volunteered. If it gives him some comfort to never see his mother on this stage..." _Let him have it_ was the silent ending to that statement, but he faded off as he began to realize he was the only one talking. Everyone else was too fixated on the determined face of Draco Malfoy to even whisper.

Rita sighed. "Very well, then. Draco Malfoy, congratulations on being the first tribute of District 12. Please step come up onto the stage."

_No_, Harry thought to himself as Draco began to make his way forward. _No, please Merlin, anyone but him._

Everyone knew Draco Malfoy. His mother was the sweetheart of the town, and he took care of her by any means he could. Poaching. Stealing. Adding his name to the ball for food, for blankets, for clothes. He was hard, brutal, if not a bit of an ass, but everyone respected him. He was a hardened man who was barely a man at all, just seventeen years old with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Not everyone liked him, but everyone knew him. And everyone had dreaded this day would soon come, leaving Narcissa alone.

A few people reached out to the young blonde as he passed them, brushing their fingers against his shoulder or wrist. A couple of the braver ones grabbed his hand and didn't let go until he was too far away for them to hold on much longer. As he reached the middle of the crowd, there was a bit of a disturbance when someone began pushing through the mass of people. Immediately, Aurors Apparated to the disturbance with a _crack_ and seized a young man who pulled against them. When his face came into clear view, Harry recognized him as a man only a few years older than he, who he knew only by the name of Cedric. "Draco, _no_," he called out, pained. "Draco, please, she doesn't want this. This isn't right." He wasn't putting up the wild fight that the younger blonde had been earlier but he still pulled against the hands and arms that restrained him. "Draco, _please_."

But the blonde didn't even turn around. From the look on his face, it didn't even phase him.

"Excuse me," Sirius said quietly, touching Harry's shoulder lightly. "I should be up there with him."

Sirius, as the only living Tournament survivor, was obligated to join the tributes at the Tournament as their mentor. But he'd never bothered to get attached to them, get up on stage and comfort them. But this was different somehow. He took his place on the stage and when Draco reached him, he opened his arms and embraced him. Draco didn't even respond; he just stood there stiffly until Sirius released him.

Harry's heart broke.

"Well," Fudge said clearing his throat. "That was...uhm...Draco..." He paused. "Welcome to the Hunt, Mr. Malfoy." Draco just stared stonily back until Fudge put his hand into the bowl again. Harry immediately turned to stare in the direction of Blaise Zabini, and he was so lost in the boy's furrowed brow and pained expression that he almost missed who the next tribute would be.

"Harry Potter."

"_What_?"

Harry couldn't stop the word from coming from his guardian's mouth anymore than he could keep his names from coming off of Fudge's lips for a second time. Harry Potter. _Him_. Him, out of all the people whose names were in that ball...

"Harry," a girl in his grade whispered behind him, prodding him with her finger. "Harry, that's you."

"Harry Potter?" Fudge called again, scanning the crowd. "Harry, where are you?"

He couldn't bring himself to move; his feet felt like they were made of lead, his legs stiff. He kept hearing Fudge's voice in his head over and over, seeing Sirius's enraged face...

"Harry, _go_."

A final shove from the girl propelled him forward and Harry didn't stop his legs from moving toward the stage, no matter how much he wanted to. If he did, he might never get started again, and he didn't want to deal with the Aurors. Not after this. There were no sympathetic pats or hand-holds for him as he walked. No friends bursting through the crowd to tell him it didn't have to be this way. There were no volunteers to take the place of Harry Potter.

"Harry," Sirius said, rushing forward to embrace him as he took the stage. "Harry this is a mistake, it has to be. I'll fix this, we'll find a way somehow t-to make things right o-or..."

"No," Harry said quietly, glancing quickly at Draco. "My name was chosen. This is...I was chosen, Sirius."

Draco raised a curious eyebrow but the pair didn't speak. Eventually, Harry looked away and back at Fudge, who was talking to the crowd about the "two tributes of District 12!" Harry and Draco got a round of applause at the end for their courage, their bravery, their silence. And then they were swept away by Rita Skeeter, pulled toward the outskirts of the District with Sirius close on their heels. It was then that it dawned on Harry what was happening. This was real. He was chosen for the Tournament.

He was a tribute.

Draco gave him a tight, almost apologetic smile as they were pushed along toward a train, but Harry couldn't bring himself to emote anything but shock at the moment. He could feel Sirius's guiding hand on the small of his back but everything else was a giant blur to him. He was a tribute. A real tribute.

Rita pushed the two boys into a train compartment, seated them on a couch. "You'll meet with your family and friends here," she said shortly. "Then I'll take you to your private quarters and we'll leave." She glanced down at a pocket watch that was hanging from a loop on her pants. "You have ten minutes." And then she was gone, turning on her heel and stomping out, as if it was a displeasure to have ever been in the two boys' company. To be honest, for her, it probably was. They weren't exactly the most glamorous of people.

Almost immediately after Rita left, Sirius and Narcissa stormed into the room. Narcissa immediately broke into tears, walking up to embrace her son, and then Harry's view was blocked by Sirius launching himself onto him, holding on tightly as though afraid that he would disintegrate. Then both of the adults started talking so fast that their words started jumbling together.

"Draco, you didn't have to do that, you brave-"

"- son of a bitch, Harry, this isn't -"

"- what I wanted but honey I -"

"- am going to fix this, Harry, you are not -"

"- going to die, Draco, you're a Malfoy and -"

"- I didn't raise you all this time just so they could kill you at the proper moment."

" - I just love you so much."

"Sirius!" Harry said, pulling back from his guardian to look him in the eye, "I'm not dead yet." The two stopped talking to stare at one another, ignoring Narcissa's chatter next to them. "You're going to be with me every step of the way. A mentor. I'm not..." He swallowed the best he could; his throat was getting tight. "I'm not going to die."

"Damn straight you're not going to die," Sirius said quietly and then he pulled Harry into another bone-crushing hug. Unsure of what else to do with himself, Harry hugged him back, and he didn't let go until Rita came back in to tell the three men that they had to go because they were _running late damn it_. In respect for his fellow tribute, Harry looked away to ignore the teary goodbyes between mother and son. However before Narcissa left, Harry did turn in time to see one final goodbye embrace, and he felt a tug of want in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have anyone back in the District to worry for him like that. His mind flashed back to Cedric running through the crowd, pushing people aside to try and get to Draco as quickly as possible. Jealousy burned in his gut, and he walked out of the room to avoid thinking about it.

"I hope this Malfoy kid is a fast learner," Sirius was mumbling beside Harry as Rita lead them toward the compartment that would be Harry's for the rest of the journey. "What is the Ministry thinking, throwing two kids into an arena with no experience with wand work? It was different when I was your age." His lips pursed. Harry knew there was a lot more he wanted to say but they were on the Ministry's watch now and treason brought on a fate worse than death. "You'll be fine. No, you will, you will most definitely be fine. You've always been such a fast, fast learner..." He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of that rather than Harry, but the younger wizard was polite enough not to say so. There was no need to worry the man further and whatever made him feel secure was fine with him. "We'll just have to work, get you some good sponsors...It shouldn't be hard."

They stopped in front of a compartment and Rita opened the door. "Yours is the one right across from his," she said to Sirius, and the older man nodded and thanked her. Then she turned and left them alone.

Harry took a seat on the bunk that was in the compartment, hands clasped firmly in front of him. Sirius knelt down in front of him. "Harry," he said in his usual quiet tone. "You're going to be just fine."

"I know," Harry lied, and Sirius smiled and pushed back his hair affectionately, running a finger over the lightning bolt shaped scar that had been on Harry's head since he was a baby. The only damage he had sustained from the mine explosion that had orphaned him. Sirius's expression immediately got more pained and he stopped, dropped his hand.

"I'll be in my compartment if you need me," he mumbled. "Just get some rest, Harry. You'll need it. It's a long ride." He patted him once on the knee and then he was gone. Harry was alone.

Now alone, in the dark, he couldn't stop the tears from flowing freely. Why him? _Why_? Of all the people in town, why did his name have to come out of that stupid ball? What had _he_ done to annoy the Ministry? Nothing! Nothing at all! His name was in that ball fifteen times and out of the thousands of slips, Fudge's hands had grabbed his. Out of the thousands of Blaise Zabini's and Draco Malfoy's, of the Cedric's and Seamus's and Neville's, it had not in fact been any of those to come out of the ball. Instead he had grabbed a one in a million name. The name of a boy who had never done a damn thing wrong. Frustrated, Harry picked up the pillow from the bed and threw it as hard as he could at the opposite wall. It made impact and fell to the floor, and Harry let out a frustrated shout and buried his head in his hands.

When he looked up, Draco was outside of his door, staring in and looking shocked. They made eye contact and Harry flushed. Then the blonde was gone, off to find his own compartment. Harry slumped back on the bed.

Draco had looked so haunted looking into the room; like he'd seen a ghost. Did he remember? Was he thinking about it? Had it all come rushing back? For Harry, it certainly had. He could remember it all from the paleness of Draco's chest to the coldness of his eyes when Harry did something, hurt him, damaged him further beyond repair. He could still plainly see the deep gashes in the other man's chest and arms, the clear message that something had gone wrong, something Draco didn't want anyone to know about. And Harry had done what he could, used what salves he had, had even tried wandless magic though he had no idea how and had just sat there trying to will the cuts away. But in the end he couldn't repair him and had let out a scream not unlike the one that just passed through his lips. After he'd calmed down, he'd sat the entire night there with the blonde trying to ease the pain instead with herbs and the occasional painkiller. And then in the morning, Draco was gone without so much of a note of thanks. Harry couldn't fix him; he had gotten himself injured somehow, probably trying to feed his mother, and Harry couldn't repair it the way the child of a Healer was supposed to be able to. But he never forgot it. It isn't often someone forgets the face of the person whose life they saved.

And now there they were, both holding the other's life in their hands. Fate was cruel like that.

Harry sighed. He didn't want to think about any of that - not fate, not the Tournament, not Draco. He just wanted to sleep.

But unluckily for him, when he closed his eyes, he dreamed about all three. And like everything else that had happened that day, there wasn't a damn thing that he could do to stop it.


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry awoke, it took him a moment to remember where he was. _Right_, he thought as he began to make sense of the rumbling around him, the damn near close to comfortable bed, and the sheets wrapped around him, _I'm on a train._

And then it all came flooding back to him all at once like a special kind of living nightmare and he felt tears well up in his eyes. He was a tribute in the Tournament. A _tribute_. A god damn sacrifice to the Ministry to put people like him in their place. An actual tribute that no one in District 12 had been bothered to stand up and save. Because he hadn't risked himself for any of them. And now, he had to go through with it; he was on the train. There was no turning back.

He didn't know how long he was laying there - five minutes. Five hours. Did it matter? These were the last moments of his life and he knew it. He wasn't a champion or a warrior. He wasn't one of those people who trained themselves for this; he wasn't prepared the way that others were. Maybe Draco was used to surviving severe cuts and bruises and risking himself for his family, but Harry? Harry had never so much as slipped on the ice and scraped his knee for the well-being of others, never mind to save himself from some deadlier peril. No, Draco at least had a chance. Him? He'd be dead by the time the first day ended. He could feel it. He might as well savor those last moments in life doing what he loved most: relaxing.

But of course, that couldn't last. Eventually, he heard a soft rapping on the door to his compartment, and when he heard it being slid open, he looked up straight into the eyes of Draco Malfoy. They paused there for a moment, staring at one another, trying to adjust to the situation, take it all in. Harry honestly hadn't spoken two words to Draco since the night he'd come stumbling into his house with his chest scraped open. It had been too weird, to look into his eyes and know that he had played some part in saving him, even if that part was just to hold bandages to stop the blood and fall asleep quenching his pain. Every now and then he'd see Draco around town and he'd be distracted by watching his easy stride, looking for a sign that he had hurt himself again, but that was about it. Draco never showed any weakness; he never required Harry's assistance again. To know that now they would be working to save one another, to keep one another alive until they could make it home in the end...it was too strange, too coincidental. Too much like fate.

Not that Harry really believed in fate. No, any higher power that might have existed had left them a long, long time ago.

"It's about time you woke up," Draco said finally, breaking their silence. "We were beginning to think you'd died of fright and saved the other tributes the trouble of killing you." Harry winced. Did he really have to be so nonchalant about it? "Well get up, then. Rita and Sirius want to see us for dinner." Harry nodded to show that he had heard him, and then Draco walked off, leaving the doorway to the compartment empty. It made Harry feel strangely alone to look at.

He pulled himself out of bed, though, in spite of wanting to fall back into it. At least if he was asleep he didn't feel the dread and loneliness that were beginning to sink into his very being. But he had to get up eventually. He had to face what was coming. Harry sighed and fixed his messy dark hair to the best of his abilities, straightening his glasses (_I shouldn't have fallen asleep with those on,_ he thought somewhat bitterly as he tried to adjust the bent metal) before following Draco's footsteps down the hall of the train. It all seemed a little surreal, like he was still stuck in his dreams, walking in a nightmare, and even the laughter coming from the compartment he was approaching didn't do a thing to make it seem any more real. To be honest, laughter was so out of place for their situation, that it just furthered his suspicion that maybe he was still dreaming.

The train lurched, and Harry stumbled, bringing attention to his presence in the doorway. Sirius, who had been the one laughing, immediately sobered as he turned to see his dependent clinging to the side of the door frame for stability, and Draco hid a smile behind his hand. "Harry," Sirius said simply in a tone that suggested he was simply _trying_ to sound happy, "it's about time you joined us. I was about to start picking at your food myself."

Food? Harry surveyed the table. Right - dinner. That meant each person had a fair share of food, something to fill their stomachs, something...appetizing. His stomach grumbled. It had been so long since he'd had enough food to consider it a meal that he'd forgotten that being hungry was something a person could fix. It wasn't like food was an abundance in District 12, no matter how rich the Tournament had supposedly made Sirius. They always had the bare minimum; enough food to quench the hunger for a while and then the rest of the money was spent on supplies and extra food, to help anyone who might drop by. A feast was something he couldn't quite grasp, even as he stared at the large quantity of food adorning the table. As he walked further into the room, he didn't even stop to think what this table filled with delicacies could have meant to Draco, who came from a much poorer section of town. He was too focused on the scents that came flooding at him, making his stomach growl.

Harry took his seat between Sirius and Draco. Immediately, Rita handed him a napkin and pushed a plate filled with everything from potatoes to steak to salad at him, as if he hadn't seen it there before. Without pausing to say thanks, he immediately picked up his fork and took a bite of potatoes.

Satisfied that Harry was at least eating, Sirius turned back to his own food, and for a moment, the table was silent save for the sound of forks clinking against plates. None of the men in the room had had a decent meal like this in a long time. It wouldn't do to ruin it with conversation.

Rita broke the silence eventually, though, by saying, "I'm glad you two have such great manners. Usually the ones we deal with have horrible table etiquette."

Next to him, Harry heard Sirius snort, and he had a sneaking suspicion that she was referencing something his guardian had done in the past. The thought brought a small smile to his lips, and he hid it behind another bite of food.

"It will honestly help you in the long run," Rita continued as if she hadn't noticed the other two at all. "Sponsors are much more likely to like you if you have good manners and are far more receptive when you're not too..." She waved her hands in the air. "Unfortunate looking, for lack of a better term. At this rate, you're already doing far better than the contestants of the past."

"Hey now," Sirius interrupted, amused, "I don't mean to sound like...well like you here, Skeeter, but I was a looker back in my day, you can't deny it. No matter what else you might think about me."

"Yes absolutely gorgeous, Sirius, but honestly, your table manners were _awful_..."

Sirius grinned and leaned down to say in Harry's ear, "She was only about twelve when I actually participated. Tagged along with her mom to see the tributes. But she still hasn't let me live down the fact that I nearly pounced on the turkey they had lying out for us." Harry just smiled in response; it didn't seem appropriate to laugh. He honestly didn't think he had it in him.

"Stop whispering over there, Sirius, I'm trying to give the boys a pep talk."

This time it was Draco's turn to snort, and Harry turned to share a small smile with him before turning back to his plate. Right. Pep talk. If that's what she called sizing them up like they were animals up for sale and criticizing their mentor. Then again, to Rita, was there really such a difference?

"Now where was I? Oh right - lookers, you two are. The audience will love that and the Ministry will as well. I can feel it. I mean some of the other pairs were absolutely stunning of course, as they tend to be, but after we clean you two up, put you in some decent clothes, tame that horrible hair of yours, Harry dear, well then you're sure to outshine them all."

"The other couples," Draco said suddenly, looking up as if he'd just remembered something important. "The rest of the ceremony - do you have it taped? I didn't get to finish it last night."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn't even glanced at the television set that he had in his room - watching the rest of the opening ceremonies for the Tournament wasn't exactly on top of his list of priorities, after all. It would just depress him to see pair after pair after pair get called and to have to sit through watching his own name get drawn, his own world begin to fall apart...He hadn't taken Draco as a sadist, and he was honestly surprised the other man seemed genuinely concerned with finishing with the formalities.

"Of course we do, dear, we always tape it for you. We'll rewatch it after you've eaten. And don't talk with your mouth full, it's rude."

This just prompted Draco to start chewing with his mouth open, and he looked over at Harry as though to start a conversation but seemed to change his mind as he caught sight of Sirius's stern look. Right. It wouldn't be smart to piss off Rita - she was basically their publicist until they entered the Tournament. She was an important part of the District 12 team until they entered the arena and it wouldn't do to make her hate you. Sirius would know, with all of the trash her mother had put out when Sirius had (as rumor had it) pulled her hair and threw bread rolls at her when she told him to behave. He had won the Tournament regardless, but it would have been a Hell of a lot easier if his bad reputation hadn't scared off so many Sponsors.

"Your stylists are around here somewhere," Rita continued, as if she hadn't noticed the short exchange. "Sleeping, no doubt, but you'll meet them after we've finished sizing up your competition. We should be arriving at the Capitol by the time the sun rises and I want you to be acquainted with them. Chat for a bit and let them clean you up for your first public appearance. Your stylists are your guide to Capitol fashion and poise. They're the ones who make you up the way that the audience will first perceive you. They basically have your life in their hands."

Harry and Draco exchanged looks. Their first public appearance - it all sounded like such a big deal when Rita put it that way. Like they were some secret that they were hiding away and were going to unleash to the public to gawk at for a while once they were satisfied that they didn't look like...well look like coal miners. Which Harry supposed was actually pretty accurate to what was happening. He knew that the Tournament was filmed and there were interviews and such with the tributes before they even entered the arena, but it had never really clicked in his head that he was going to be in the media now. He was going to have people taking his picture and filming him and wanting to see him and it was important that he looked like it didn't even phase him so he could get Sponsors - Sponsors who wanted to back somebody who was poised and confident and attractive, who the media might be able to back as well. He frowned. He'd never liked having attention, and he realized now that he was going to have a Hell of a lot of it now that he was a tribute. Great. Another fabulous perk he got from getting his name drawn.

Draco didn't look nearly as upset; in fact, he looked almost calm, like he had accepted his fate and was now looking to drift through it. Though Harry would guess that it was a lot easier for him; Draco had, after all, at least volunteered to be here.

"Speaking of your first public appearance," Rita said after a long pause, slowly, almost carefully. She put her fork down and began to wipe her hands on her napkin, glancing over at Sirius, who refused to meet her gaze. "There is something that your mentor would like to discuss with you. Right, Sirius?"

"Right," Sirius grumbled, and Harry stared at him, ready to at least take in anything that he had to say. But Sirius just continued eating as if he was unaware of the three pairs of eyes now set on him. Rita cleared her throat, and Sirius gave her a murderous look and put his fork down. He still took his sweet time with chewing the food still in his mouth, though, and by the time he had swallowed it, Harry found himself getting nervous. Whatever Sirius had to say, he didn't look happy about it.

But even after his guardian had swallowed his food, he didn't talk. He instead just pulled out a small, familiar black box from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. Immediately, Harry tensed.

"Sirius, you can't."

Draco gave them both a curious look, but Sirius didn't even glance in Harry's direction. He was too busy staring at the box. "What?" Draco finally asked. "Is it like a bomb or something?"

"It's our tokens," Harry murmured quietly, though that was only really a guess. He had no idea what Sirius thought he was doing, pulling those out, and that was the only logical explanation he could think of. Draco frowned.

"I thought we got to choose our own tokens."

"Yeah well unless you happened to snatch one up before we left, you don't really have one, do you?" Harry snapped, annoyed, and Draco looked taken aback. It wasn't really fair of him to snap - Draco didn't force Sirius to bring those - but how else was he supposed to react? He wasn't allowed to touch those back home, and he didn't even like to glance at them. It made him too upset. Sirius had another thing coming if he really expected Harry to keep it on for the entire Tournament...

"We were going to give you time to choose your own tokens," Sirius said quietly, almost soothingly, to Draco, "but there wasn't enough time. You caused a little bit of a scene there, Draco, and that cost us a few minutes. Not to mention Blaise's usual security check and the fact that not a lot of time or effort is put into the reaping in our town..." He trailed off. "I usually keep these in my pocket during the reaping anyway. I figure it wouldn't hurt to give them to you two."

Draco stared at the box, almost warily. "What are they?"

Sirius began to open the box, but Harry answered before he got it all the way open. "They're phoenix pins."

And they were. They were small, round, pins made of gold, with flames adorning the bottom of the them and the figure of a bird rising from them with its beak pointed up almost defiantly, its wings spread as though it was preparing to take flight. They weren't anything fancy; just plain gold circles with simple decorations. But they had belonged to Harry's mother and father, a symbol of undying love, trust, and devotion, and they made Harry sick with desire to look at. There were three pins in that stupid black box. One of those was his anyway. But he'd never worn it, never even touched it. It made him too sad, too nostalgic for a past he couldn't even remember. And it wasn't fair for Sirius to not only give one to Draco, but to ask the pair of them to wear them in the Tournament. It wasn't fair at all.

"They're..." Draco started, but he never finished that sentence. Maybe it was because he didn't know what to say; maybe it was just the look on Harry's face. But whatever it was, he didn't feel it was important enough to vocalize. Instead, he just reached forward and brushed one of the circular pins with the pads of his fingers. Immediately, Harry bristled.

"You should have let us pick our own tokens," he growled, turning to his mentor, and Sirius raised a curious eyebrow. "They're supposed to be special. Individual and unique. They're supposed to be the one thing we have to remind us of home."

"These are unique, Harry," Sirius said in that stupid quiet tone of his. "There's only three pins in the world like these ones."

"And they belong to my parents," Harry shot back, and he saw Draco immediately pull his hand back from the box. "They're not meant for the Tournaments, Sirius, they're meant to stay at home in a protective case-"

"And do what, Harry? Depress you further? Sit there and rot in a cage like your parents never did? They wanted you to have them, Harry, to pass on, to be inspired by."

"Surely not inspired to kill!"

"Well inspired to do _something_!" Sirius's voice had risen, and Harry set his teeth in defiance. "Harry, these pins are a symbol of everything you two boys could represent. We're not meant to be winners; we're coal miners. But phoenixes are most famous for being reborn from the ashes, and Harry - I believe you and Draco could be the rebirth of District 12. You are going to survive." He pushed the box toward the boys and both of them seemed to shrink back. "Phoenixes are loyal. They represent undying trust and devotion, and most of all, they are fierce fighters that never give up. These are all the qualities you two need to share if you want to win. You're a team now." He paused, surveying each of their faces in turn. "Now put on the damn pins."

Draco reached for the box without further question, lifting one of the pins carefully, like it was the most precious thing he'd ever held in his hands. To be honest, it probably was - it wasn't like luxuries like gold were abundant in District 12; they mined coal, not precious metals. He carefully pinned it to his shirt and sat staring at it for a while. Harry couldn't bring himself to touch them. He just stared at them in wonder, in disgust, in anger, and eventually Sirius gave up on trying to get him to put it on and just picked one up and pinned it to Harry's shirt himself. It felt heavy on the thin fabric of his clothes, and Harry found himself thinking that it didn't feel quite right, resting against the beat of his heart. Almost like it was weighing it down.

Sirius nodded, obviously pleased with their tokens, and clasped his hands together. "Like I said before," he said, "you two are a team now. You are no longer Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy as separate people. You are the District 12 tributes." He paused. "I made the mistake of never cooperating with the other tribute I was with. I'm not letting that happen with you two. A pair of young and able wizards is much, much more dangerous than you two separately." He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "When we go out to greet the press for the first time tomorrow morning, I want you two to come off as that - a pair. Friends who are willing to do everything it takes to keep one another alive. Unity and bonds get audiences riled up more than enmity and hatred ever will, and Sponsors like pairs that get the audience to love them. You two will not be separated; you will walk together, talk together, train together, and live together." Harry glanced over at Draco but the blonde's eyes were fixed on their mentor. Feeling slightly dejected, Harry looked back at Sirius as he continued to speak. "If you don't one another well now, I suggest you change that. Because once those cameras start rolling, I don't want anyone out there to doubt that you two are as close as can be."

There was a long pause after that. Harry knew that Sirius was their mentor and they were supposed to listen to him. He knew that Sirius knew a Hell of a lot more about playing the media and Sponsors and the audience than Harry ever would. He knew that Sirius was probably telling them the best battle strategy so that they could win. But what Sirius was suggesting sent a wave of panic coursing through Harry's veins. He couldn't get to know Draco; he couldn't spend every waking moment with him. It was awkward enough that they were chosen to do this together, that he was sitting next to him at dinner, and Harry found himself getting increasingly annoyed as he thought about Sirius's words. First he was forced to be a part of the Tournament, then he was forced to wear (and share) a token he didn't want, and now he was being forced to be Draco's friend? Was there anything he had a say in anymore?

At least Draco didn't seem to be too enthusiastic about it, either. He was looking down at his hands now, picking at his fingernails and refusing to look at anyone. Harry again found himself wondering if Draco was thinking about the night he'd gone to Harry for help. He wondered if he thought about it as much as Harry did.

"Rita and I are going to leave you two to talk a bit," Sirius said, interrupting their thoughts. "Come find us in about an hour, after you learned a little something about one another." He paused and surveyed their faces. "I believe in you two. I do." Then he nodded tightly and rose from the table, Rita following suit. They walked out of the room together, leaving Harry and Draco alone with nothing but the small _thump_ of the compartment door as it slid shut. Harry cleared his throat.

"Well," he said.

"Well," Malfoy repeated.

They fell into silence. What were they supposed to talk about? Harry frowned. Well, talking about home was surely out of the question. He didn't want to think about anything they were leaving behind if he could help it, which was growing hard enough as it was because of the pin weighing down on his chest. But he didn't want to talk about the Tournament either. It would probably scare him to death, thinking about everything that could happen, worrying about how long he was going to make it. He bit his lip. How did someone make natural conversation? Harry's social life was usually limited to those who dropped by to get something cured or healed, and with that, there wasn't a lot to say, and what he did say came naturally. Diagnoses. Telling everyone they would be okay. Naming the remedies he was giving them. That was easy; it was work. But actual socialization? That was more of Draco's thing - the poorer section of town was known to be quite tight, and Harry often felt out of place walking through town and seeing everyone talking to one another like they were all friends. No one knew Harry except to be healed; everyone, though, knew Draco.

"So I guess we're phoenixes," Draco finally said in an attempt to break the silence but this was entirely the wrong thing to say. Harry's stomach squirmed.

"I guess we are," he replied flatly, and Draco frowned. The pair fell into silence again. Harry twiddled with his thumbs. Honestly, why was it so hard to talk to Draco? It wasn't like he was anyone terrifying. He was somewhat of a git, actually, if Harry remembered correctly...

As if on cue, the blonde sighed and leaned forward, obviously bored. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"What are you groaning about?" he asked, and Draco waved his hand in his direction.

"You. Honestly, how are we supposed to socialize when you keep sitting there playing with your fingers instead of making an effort?"

"Well I'm not sure what to talk about," Harry countered lamely. Draco laughed.

"Oh of course not. No, there's nothing interesting going on in our lives at all right now..."

Harry's stomach twisted again. "I don't want to talk about the Tournament."

"Why not? It's not like you can ignore that it's happening."

"I can for now," Harry replied through clenched teeth, not really appreciating Draco's tone.

"Then you're more cowardly than I thought," was the simple reply, and Harry ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to temper himself. Why was Draco being such a git? Wasn't he terrified, too? Didn't it worry him that they had just been sent to an arena to fight to the death? Wasn't he scared about having to learn defensive magic all in one day? Didn't that make him even the tiniest bit nervous?

"Aren't you scared?" Harry found himself asking, and he met Draco's steely eyes for a second before looking away. What a cowardly thing to ask.

"Not really," Draco replied, though his words came out slowly, like he was thinking carefully about what he was saying. "I mean, it was going to happen to us some time, right? If not this year then next. Or the year after. Or the year after." He paused. "It's sort of inescapable. Unless you win it, of course. Or sleep your way through the Ministry, like Rita."

Harry felt a grin tug at the edges of his lips at the shot at Rita Skeeter but he couldn't bring himself to feel amused for long. Of course Draco wasn't scared. What a stupid thing to ask. Draco was coal miner, a badass by District 12 standards. He was known for sneaking out of the District to poach wild animals and hunt late at night. He never once jumped or squirmed in front of authority, and he hadn't even been phased by the touching gestures he had received as he made his way up to the stage. If none of that scared him - breaking the law or volunteering or even killing an animal, something Harry knew he could never do - then why would the Tournament be any different? It was just another thing for him to battle through while Harry sat back and did nothing except die.

"Are you?" Draco asked after a few seconds of silence, and Harry looked over at him, studying his face before shaking his head.

"I don't know," he replied, but it was a lie and they both knew it. But Harry wasn't going to be the coward in this situation; he refused to be.

"Well don't be," came Draco's reply, sounding just a touch annoyed. "I know the Tournament scares some people to death and they're usually the ones that do something stupid and die in the first five minutes. Sirius would kill me if you kicked it, so I plan on keeping you alive. And in order to do that, I need you to think that we actually have a shot of winning this thing as a pair."

"Well it's not as easy as that," Harry started but Draco cut him off before he could go further.

"Then _make_ it that easy, Potter. You saved my life once, and if this is how I have to repay you, so be it. But you're not ruining it because you're being a little bitch. We're going to be fine."

So there it was - he did remember. He hadn't forgotten that night, the debt he had put himself in, though Harry honestly never expected anything in return from him. And as much as Draco was irritating him at this moment, he had a point - if Harry didn't believe that they could win, how would they? If he was too paralyzed by fear to do anything, how in the Hell was he supposed to survive?

"I don't like this whole being a pair thing," Draco continued, apparently noticing how Harry seemed to relax a bit in his chair. "I usually work alone or...or not with you." Harry stared at him. His mind flashed back to the reaping, to Cedric pushing through the crowd, telling Draco it didn't have to be this way, it wasn't what Narcissa wanted. His stomach turned. Right. Not with him. "But Sirius thinks playing the media is the best thing to do and so we're doing it. He may be insufferable at times but he knows what he's talking about." He circled the phoenix on his chest for a moment, looking down at it. "We're phoenixes. Poised. Brave. Some consider them to be the most beautiful magical creature in the world." He looked up. "And I know being pretty is something of a task for you, but we have to represent our symbols well. So if you're scared, do not let anyone know." His stare was challenging, stern, like he was afraid Harry was going to get off the train and immediately burst into tears. Like Harry was a child that needed his guidance. Annoyance prickled in the back of Harry's mind.

"I get it," he said, resisting the urge to clench his teeth. "Don't act scared, act like your best friend, we're phoenixes, et cetera. I'm not two, _Malfoy_. I grew up watching the Tournament same as you."

"Well then start acting like it," Draco snapped and Harry's gaze narrowed. Honestly, is that the only comeback that he had? Like he was so much better than Harry was... "Rita and Sirius expect us to walk into that TV room and act like best friends. Or at least closer friends. If you can pull that off, then I'll put a little more faith in then. But until you prove yourself, you're the one who admitted to being scared here. Not me. And if I have to save your ass then I think I have a right to do it in the most condescending way possible."

"Funny," Harry replied moodily, without missing a beat, "because I don't remember being such a condescending dick when _I_ was saving _your_ ass." Malfoy's eyes narrowed and Harry immediately regretted what he said. Using saving a patient's life as grounds to get back at them? Not exactly the smartest or kindest moment in his life. But it was Draco's own fault. If he hadn't been acting like he was Harry's superior, like he knew so much more than him...

"I'll act like your stupid friend, okay?" Harry said in reply to Draco's glare. "Just stop...staring at me like that. I'll act all buddy buddy and just...play along. But not when I don't have to. No cameras, no friendship." The implied _because you sort of piss me off, you stupid git_ hung in the air between them.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Draco responded, eyes still narrowed slightly, like just looking at Harry pissed him off. "Now come on. Rita and Sirius are waiting for us, and I don't know about you? But I'd rather get this all done and over with as soon as possible."

And as he reached out to roughly pull Harry up by his shoulder, explaining all the small things that he had to do to make it seem like they were a little more friendly with one another, the brunette found himself thinking that for once he honestly couldn't agree more.


	3. Chapter 3

If Harry thought that seeing the other tributes would bring them any sort of comfort, he was wrong. He was dead wrong.

They were _terrifying_. All of them, from Districts One through Eleven, no matter how big or small or young or old. Terrifying. And Harry knew it wasn't just him imagining things, either - he could feel Malfoy's fear radiating off of him even as his face remained stoic. There was no getting around it - they came from a shitty district and compared to everybody else in competition? It was a surprise they hadn't already had their train bombed to spare the other Districts the trouble of killing them.

District One brought them a boy and a girl - Theodore Nott, a tall dark-haired man around Harry's age that looked harmless enough. Except for the fact that he sort of had the aura of a scheming snake that had just had its supper placed in front of it and the fact that he had volunteered before the first name had even been drawn. Yeah. That sort of ruined any harmless views Harry had of him. The girl, Pansy Parkinson, was worse. She was pug-faced and unappealing, and she had stepped forward to volunteer with reluctance after someone who must have been her mother pushed her out into the middle of the square. She handled the whole thing with an air of boredom - like it was a really boring vacation she'd be taking for a few weeks rather than a fight to the death. There was something unsettling about it, and Harry tried not to stare at the bare patches of skin each of them had. Everything seemed toned.

District Two didn't fare much better - two boys, and the ceremony was similar to that of the one in District 12 only without the drama. There wasn't any screaming or fighting or helpful touches. A little girl's name was called and immediately an older male (a meek man with a sense of purpose and hidden power whose name Harry didn't catch) stepped forward and said he volunteered in her place. The next tribute's name was just pulled - Malcolm Baddock, a kid who they claimed was sixteen but looked twenty-three. Harry remembered what District Two was used for (carving tools, weapons, military) and thought that Malcolm was someone he wanted to steer clear of.

When District Three's turn rolled around, Harry was a little relieved to see that they weren't the only District that made a little bit of a scene. It was embarrassing, really, to have had someone act out like that, and while Draco's pride (surprisingly) hadn't taken a hit, it was nice to see that the emotions were high in more than just their home. A bushy-haired female by the name of Hermione Granger had been chosen as tribute and for a moment, the crowd was a sea of calm. Then she took her first step forward and a fiery-haired male grabbed her arm and loudly announced that he volunteered. She shook him off with an annoyed, "_Ronald_," and the commentators made a few ginger jokes that Harry mostly ignored. He was too focused on the struggle between the boy and the girl - the boy wanting to volunteer and the girl refusing to let him. Finally, a man on stage who had to be their mayor, said loudly, "_Ronald Weasley, are you volunteering or not_?" and Hermione nearly shouted, "NO," and that was that. Not that it did much good - Ronald had already volunteered to be the second tribute before Hermione even reached the stage. "_Interesting turn of events there_," one of the commentators said and Harry glanced over at Sirius to see what his guardian thought. His mentor's lips were pursed and his brow furrowed, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Figuring they'd discuss it later, Harry turned back to the screen.

District Four had the least terrifying tributes, Harry had to admit - a pair of identical twin girls both with ridiculous names that started with the letter 'P'. They didn't look too frightening like most District Four tributes. They weren't buff even by girl standards, they didn't give off a creepy aura, and they didn't even seem too graceful. But Harry kept in mind that District Four was known for getting quite a few tributes to the end of the games. It wouldn't be wise to underestimate them.

District Five and District Six brought three more girls and one more boy, and the only notable thing about all of them was that they all volunteered, something that was incredibly troubling. How many Districts had trained for the Tournament this year?

Districts Seven through Ten added the youngest tributes. All of them had to be below the age of sixteen and Harry gave them all until the end of the first day. Then he realized what he was thinking and made a mental note to just steer clear of them - he would not be responsible for the death of a child.

Last, District Eleven's town square flashed onto the screen. They brought the oldest tributes - a man named Peter Pettigrew who everyone seemed happy to be rid of and a female named Nymphadora something, who Harry thought was terrifying on her own because of the way her hair changed from a grave black to a deep, blood red as she took the stage. He felt his heart begin to pound harder in his chest when Sirius turned off the TV before he could watch his own reaping. So that was their competition. A lot of warriors, a couple children, and two adults. Great. He glanced over at Draco who was sitting beside him but his face was as expressionless as ever. He wasn't going to receive any comfort from him; he didn't even know if he felt as threatened as Harry did.

They all sat in silence for a little while longer, just staring at the television's blank screen. Harry found himself feeling sick. How in the Hell was he supposed to compete against them? Children and peers and adults that scared the life out of him...those weren't people Harry ever wanted to face. Hell, Harry never wanted to be entered into the Tournament at all! It wasn't...he didn't want to kill anyone! He could feel tears begin to well up and blinked them back. No, he couldn't cry now. Draco would never let him live it down. So instead he just sat in stony silence with the others, just staring. Staring and praying that if he stared long enough, he'd eventually wake up and realize it was nothing more than a horrible horrible dream...But then Rita interrupted the silence with the soft clearing of her throat, and all eyes turned to look at her.

"You really should be going to see your stylists," she said softly, and Harry found a part of himself thinking that maybe Rita was somewhat human after all as she wiped away a tear. She sure seemed as shell shocked as the rest of them. "They'll want to see you...make you...handsome." Then she attempted a smile, and even though it came out looking more like a grimace, Harry smiled back. He sat staring at her for a moment, motionless, and then Draco reached out and touched his wrist - a simple gesture, but reminder enough. They needed to get moving.

"Thanks, Rita," Harry murmured as he stood to go, Draco close behind. "For..." For what? Taking him away from life as he knew it? For introducing him to hell? It didn't seem to matter that he couldn't finish that sentence, though. She smiled just the same as if he'd given a long-winded speech worthy of the likes of her and wiped away further tears as she said, "Good luck to the both of you. May the odds be ever in your favor." Then she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose in a very un-Rita-like fashion. "Your stylists will be waiting for you in your quarters."

Draco and Harry both gave her a tight nod and exited the room together. Harry paused at the door, turning to wait for Sirius to follow them but his godfather was still staring intently at the television screen looking rather troubled. To be honest, he wasn't sure if the older man was even aware that the two kids he'd be mentoring had sat up at all. Draco murmured a quiet, "Come on, Potter," and pulled on his wrist. The two walked through the train compartments in silence, not even glancing at one another as they passed door after door after door. Harry knew that it was required to watch the reaping ceremony. He knew that everyone across Panem had been watching - from District 1 to District 12 and even in the Ministry. But he didn't see why even the competitors should have to view their competition. He couldn't even blame Draco for bringing it up at dinner; regardless of if his companion wanted to see the other tributes or not, they still would have been forced to watch it eventually. It was just the way things were.

As they approached their own individual compartments, Draco released his hold on Harry's wrist and it wasn't until then that he realized how much that had been keeping him together. Without it, he felt alone. Which was stupid. He didn't even like Draco and he was going to be spending the next few weeks trying to save his stupid life. He was never going to be alone. But still his wrist felt cold without the pressure of Malfoy's fingers and he let terror fly for a split second over his features before he calmed himself. He needed to pull himself together. If Draco was killed in the Tournament, he was going to have to deal with being on his own and fear wasn't something that was going to be good to show on camera. He needed to be strong. But it was hard when it felt like no one was really standing on his side.

"Potter," Draco said curtly and Harry glanced over at him. "If you die out there and leave me with those other tributes, I'll kill you."

Which was probably the stupidest statement that he had ever heard in his life, but it brought a small smile to his features anyway. Draco briefly returned it before his features sobered up and he stepped into his compartment to greet the shadows lurking behind the door. Figuring that there was no reason to dawdle in the hall any longer, Harry did the same.

He was immediately greeted by three figures - one male with horse-like features whose skin was dyed the color of the sea during a storm and two females, a blonde who seemed to have a fashion fetish that included a lot of vegetables and an Oriental brunette with bronze tattoos running in intricate swirls across every inch of her skin. They beamed as he walked in and let out a rather harmonious cry of, "Harry!" that made the young man wonder if they had been practicing that while he was out eating. He gave them all a tight smile and tried not to tense too much when they all collapsed on him in a sea of arms for a hug. In District 12, no one was ever really big on hugs. Sirius only hugged Harry on special occasions and if anyone wanted to show affection or make their presence known, they grabbed another's wrist or briefly touched their waist or back or shoulder. Hugging was only done when there were times of great joy or great sorrow; a birth or a death or a reaping. He didn't really feel that this was the best time for hugs but he remembered that his stylists grew up in the Ministry and were really only there to help him. He couldn't help but wonder, though, if his companion had gotten the same kind of treatment and how exactly he had responded to it.

"You have fabulous shoulders, deary," the brunette said as she pulled away and the man nodded his agreement before adding, "And the most beautiful green eyes! We can do so much with those, Ginevra will be so pleased." The blonde nodded absentmindedly, her hand staying somewhere around Harry's lower back and she stared intently at the space between his neck and shoulder before saying, "You have a very good aura about you. I think the cameras will like you very much." To this, the other two let out excited cries of consent and rushed forward to hug him again. Not knowing what else to do, Harry just let it happen.

"Oh silly me," the brunette giggled as she pulled away from the mass of limbs, "we forgot to introduce ourselves!"

"Right we did, didn't we? That's quite rude of us."

"Very rude indeed."

"Well I'm Firenze," the blue man said, offering up his hand.

"Cho," the brunette offered up, doing the same.

"Luna," the last chimed in, though a little late as though she hadn't realized what was going on until she noticed the other two sticking their hands out. Harry shook all of their hands in turn and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you," and all three immediately began fawning over his manners and collapsed again into another group hug. This time, Harry made an effort to somewhat return it. He was going to be stuck with them for the duration of the Tournament and he figured that he might as well try to appeal to them. That was all this was, after all. An appeals to everyone around him - the audience, his team, his companion, his mentor, and the Gamemakers. He needed to get used to accommodating now.

"Okay, Harry, I know you're probably very nervous about all this," Cho said, taking his hand in what he supposed was her way of attempting to be comforting, though with the ridiculously long fake nails she had on, carved at the tips into various shapes, it was really more painful than anything. "You don't seem like the type of man who has been through any kind of spa treatment."

"Oh goodness no," Firenze chimed in, using a handkerchief to wipe some dirt off of Harry's nose.

"But we promise we are going to do everything we can to make you as comfortable as possible so we can get you all sparkly and clean before Ginevra makes an appearance. She really doesn't want to see you until you're glistening."

"And we do mean glistening," Luna chimed in, tilting her head to the side as she smiled absently. Harry gave her a tight, awkward grin, not sure what to make of that. She giggled. "There's no need to have so many thoughts, Harry Potter. Just close your eyes and let us do our job."

"And take off your clothes," Firenze added. "Before you let go of all your thoughts, I mean. It's very hard to remove the clothes off a practically dead body."

What happened next was the most excruciatingly awkward three hours of Harry's life. He had no problem at all being naked in front of people. As a Healer, he saw a lot of naked bodies and it wasn't like he was ashamed of his anatomy at all. In fact, he had more muscle than a lot of people in District 12 and was rather well proportioned. He even was fortunate enough to not be born with excessively creepy amounts of body hair and kept himself well-groomed in comparison to the people around him. But in spite of this, Cho, Luna, and Firenze managed to find every flaw that he had yet to discover about himself and attempt to wipe it clean.

They first started with the dangerously large amount of dirt and soot that had been clinging to his body for as long as he could remember. Though he himself was not a miner and didn't have nearly as much random dirt clinging to his skin as say Draco did, no one in District 12 was ever entirely clean. Dirt was always being kicked up, soot was pretty much a part of their everyday attire, and bathing and showering did little to help as every dust particle in the air seemed to want to cling to their wet skin. Firenze told him that they first needed to start by removing all of this excess dirt and led Harry to a bathtub for the longest bath he had ever taken before in his life. They filled the tub once and softly scrubbed every inch of his body to get the 'easier' dirt off (allowing him, of course, to take care of his more personal regions). Then they emptied the water, scrubbed the tub clean, refilled it, and this time spent the better part of forty-five minutes scrubbing him with bristly brushes that left deep red marks with every stroke until he felt he was literally rubbed raw. Then they refilled the tub with the same procedure again and lightly washed his body and hair until they were positively certain he was clean. From there, they covered him with a robe and went to pay attention to all of the hair that had accumulated on himself through the years. A lot of regions they left alone - his arms, underarms, and legs for example. With the hair on top of his head, they just gave it a nice trim to attempt to make it more even than what the 'stylists' in his District had been able to manage to keep it out of his eyes. Everything else, though, he was told had to go.

That was the most painful part. He didn't know exactly why body hair was such a bad thing to people on camera, but facial hair, chest hair, and (this was the one that made him groan out loud) pubic hair were all frowned upon on tributes. So he was shaved, then waxed, and then had to go through the terrifying process of having a laser run over every part of his body meant to be hairless to ensure they had captured everything (with the assurance that he shouldn't worry about children, he'd still be able to have them). Then they plucked at his eyebrows and attempted to smooth out the drying hair on top of his head, debated what to do about his glasses (he couldn't have them in the arena, could he?) before deciding to let this 'Ginevra' take care of it. By the time they were done and Harry was able to look at himself in the mirror, he hardly recognized the person staring back at him. He had never been so clean before in his life. He even seemed to...well...

"Glisten," he mumbled quietly and Luna laughed joyfully beside him.

"I told you you'd be glistening, Harry Potter," she grinned, running her fingers quickly through his hair and ruining the efforts of Firenze and Cho to keep it lying flat. "It was something in that scrub we used. Ginny wanted it." She flicked over a lock of his hair that had been standing straight up. "I quite like it, I think."

"Yes, yes, he's absolutely darling," Cho chimed in, stepping forward to knock away Luna's hands and go back to straightening his hair. "But we still have the matter of his eyesight, not to mention this wretched hair, and Harry, darling, you have so many _scars_, especially that horribly distracting one on your forehead-"

"Leave the one on his forehead," came a sudden foreign voice from the door of his compartment and Cho jumped as she urgently tried to flatten his hair. "I like it. It adds a little bit of...charm. People spend a lot of money to get tattoos to even resemble that."

In the mirror, Harry could see the reflection of a woman in a plain maroon top and tight, leather black pants walk further into his compartment, surveying his face in the reflection of the mirror before taking a moment to fix her own fiery red hair. She was beautiful. Not that Harry had much to base beauty off of as where he came from, that sort of thing was measured in strength and willpower and productivity. But regardless of what traditional views of beauty were, he had a feeling he'd still call her beautiful in comparison to the standard. She didn't have dyed skin like Firenze or a strange taste in fashion like Luna or even a variety of tattoos like Cho. Instead, she decorated her features only around her eyes - eyeliner that was bold made the standard browns pop and mascara made her lashes look long, lush, and beautiful. Even without the makeup, she'd be a lovely person to behold but with it, she was radiant. Simple, but radiant.

"Harry," she greeted with a soft smile, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder and turn him around his chair to face her. "So great to finally meet you. I'm Ginevra - your stylist, though you probably figured that out by now."

"I was somehow able to put two and two together, yeah."

She laughed and it was like the sound of bells, soft and beautiful and angelic. Harry could feel the area around his ears turn red as he smiled up at her. He had never had much of an attraction to women. He'd never had much of an attraction to _anybody_ if he was telling the truth but women especially. They were all just various shades of black or white where he came from. Either they were harder than stone and tougher than nails or meek as a mouse and as easy to make cry as a newborn baby. But Ginevra had poise he had never seen before and a smile that was neither shy nor cocky and a laugh that could heal the sick and dying. If he were to feel an attraction toward any woman, he found no issue whatsoever with it being this one.

"Yes well...we'll have to do more work once we actually reach the Ministry," the woman said as she bent down and grabbed Harry's chin in her hand, turning his head back and forth to get a good look at his features. "But you're not completely hopeless. To the very least, you have wonderful eyes." Her brow furrowed. "How does Draco look in green?"

"Horrid," Harry responded immediately with a slight wrinkle of his nose and he watched as Ginny's eyebrows raised in surprise. "I-I mean...green trim he could probably do or a darker green but really, he should stick with...darker...shades." He shook his head. "Nevermind, disregard anything I say. You're the stylist."

She laughed again and somewhere out there an angel got their wings. "I like you, Harry Potter. I think we're going to have a lot of fun." She patted his cheek before standing up fully again. "Cho, be a dear and run back to my compartment, open the closet, and grab the second outfit on your left. And then drop by Mr. Malfoy's compartment and let Astoria know we're going with outfit 7." Cho gave a tight nod before scurrying out of the room, and Ginevra smiled contently, crossing her arms over her chest with a satisfied smile.

Harry bit his lip. He knew he should trust this woman. He did. But the fact that she had _seven_ outfits to the very least picked out for him to wear just arriving to the Ministry made him worry. People who grew up outside of the Districts or who were pulled away from them to exhibit their special talents in a more secure environment were a little...off. They had...well dyed skin or bronze tattoos or an affinity for vegetable earrings. And a lot of the time, stylists did a horrible job with adequately representing who their tributes were. They tried to dress them up in the latest Ministry fashion and oftentimes what they had them wear was embarrassing to say the very least. They always tried to make it match the District they were from, whether it be casual wear that the cameras might never see or the costumes they would be put in while being formally introduced before their introductory interviews. Though Harry so far seemed to really like who Ginevra was and her style seemed a lot more tame than the style of those in her team, he couldn't help but worry about what she was going to put him in. After all, she hadn't even asked about what he usually wore. In fact, he realized as his brow furrowed, the only person she did ask about was...

"Ginevra?"

"Ginny, Harry, call me Ginny." She took a seat on his bed, crossing her legs to make herself comfortable. Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

"Right. Ginny. Uhm." He paused. "Why...did you want to know about how Draco looked in green?"

If the question seemed strange to her, she didn't show it. "You and Draco are a team right now Harry," she said in a tone that was purely explanatory, not patronizing nor confused. "A pair if you will. Though stylists tend to like to play to the strengths of their tributes' physical attributes be it their bodies or hair or...say, eyes, and give them a look based on that, Astoria - that's Draco's stylist - well, she and I decided that we were going to take a different route the second we saw Draco's face when your name was called." She didn't even pause at the surprised look that spread across Harry's features, though she did give him a knowing look. "And when you two shared that look...it was just one look while you were on stage, when you were calming down your mentor? Well we decided then that if you two were going to present yourself as a team at the reaping then we might as well carry that on through the Tournament."

"Present ourselves as-as a team?" Harry could have laughed. "Me and Draco? Draco _Malfoy_?"

Ginny's brow furrowed with confusion. "Well yes, of course. Normally tributes refuse to look at each other during reapings. We thought for sure that when you two...And in the hall, walking here, you passed our compartments..." She frowned. "I'm sorry, did we misread something?"

Sirius's words from dinner came flying back at him. _Once those cameras start rolling, I don't want anyone out there to doubt that are you are as close as can be._ Great. Had everyone been planning this sort of thing while he was sleeping? Did Draco know? "Well...well not necessarily, I mean..."

But before he could get a proper explanation out of what exactly he and Draco were to one another, Cho came back into the room with what looked a hell of a lot like a body bag on a hanger. Familiar with the idea of a body bag to the very least, Harry raised his eyebrows. What kind of outfit was supposed to be considered 'casual' that took up that much room? At the look on his face, Ginny laughed.

"Don't look so worried," she said, standing to take the hanger from Cho and hang it on a rail above Harry's bunk. "Most of it is just air and then room for shoes and any other extraneous accessories, though I hear you've got a pretty nice one yourself somewhere around here."

"Here it is, Gin," Luna said brightly, stepping forward to dump something into the palm of Ginny's hand. As he looked more carefully, Harry realized with a bit of a jolt that it was his phoenix pin.

"Ah yes there it is. Thanks, Luna."

"Ginny about that pin..."

"Yes it's absolutely darling, isn't it? Very nice call on Sirius's part there, getting you matching tokens. And what better symbol than a phoenix? Genius, absolutely genius. I nearly cried when he showed them to me this morning and immediately went back and made some last minute adjustments to my favorite pieces..." As she spoke, she began to unzip the bag with her free hand but Harry honestly wasn't paying her much mind. He was too focused on the hand that was wrapped tight around one of his parents' pins.

"Ah here we are then." Harry tore his eyes away from her pale hand to look up at what she was presenting to him and knew immediately that he had been worrying for nothing. It was a simple outfit - a black shirt and dark green cargo pants with a gold trim that extended around the pockets to form a simple but beautiful design that reminded Harry a bit of flames. For shoes, there sat a pair of simple black boots that would lace up to about mid-calf and seemed to be trimmed with the same fabric that his shirt was made of. Overall, it was simple. Yet even just looking at it Harry knew it was far nicer than any other outfit he'd ever worn before. The only troubling part of it was the jar of what looked like gold paint that Ginny was holding in her hand.

"Suit up, Potter," she told him with a bit of a mischievous smirk on her beautiful face. "We're going to make you...what's the word you used, Luna?"

"Glisten?"

"Right. We're going to make you glisten, Harry."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** First, I'm sorry it took so long to update! I've been really, really, really busy with exams and family and the like, have been since basically December (crazy, right?) but I promise this isn't an abandoned effort! Thank you all for reading and for all the kind reviews. It means the world. Also, The Hunger Games and Harry Potter - they don't belong to me. But you probably figured that out, right? The only thing I own is the attempt I've made to smush them together. On that note, yes, I have taken a few liberties in figuring out how ceremonial and procedural events will happen in this universe. So if it doesn't strictly match up to The Hunger Games process, I'm sorry. Just know that I tried. And please don't burn me at the stake. Much love and thank you again. Now enjoy.

_Bonus note:_ this is a little filler chapter to tide you over. School ends for me in two weeks and I'll be having a lot of extra time to work until then. Finding out their outfits, the ceremony, and a conversation afterward will follow in a full, hopefully long chapter when I have time to focus on things not pertaining to gas laws. In the meantime, make of this what you will.

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><p>Glisten was...a bit of an understatement. Harry didn't just glisten by the time Ginny, Luna, Cho, and Firenze were done with him. He shone - though, this was just a casual look. Enough to take him into the Ministry and take care of him for this first night before he got into the actual Training Center and situated to be presented to all of Panem in one of the most iconic moments of the entire Tournament - the formal introduction of the tributes. However, that didn't matter. In spite of this, his prep team still went to great lengths to paint extravagant patterns on his skin with the gold substance in the jar, swirls that started on the edges of his eyes and extended into flames the further out they went on his cheek and temples. On this arms, they did something similar, though with his shirt on the most anyone could see of that pattern was the few inches down to his elbow that were left uncovered by the black shirt Ginny had selected for him. The paint burned slightly when applied and Ginny assured him that it was just setting - it wasn't permanent, but it would last the rest of the night so that they didn't have to redo it when dressing him for his and Malfoy's formal introduction to all of Panem. By the time they were done with him, he gave the impression of having the fashionable tattoos that were so popular in the Ministry without having to actually get it done and when he looked in the mirror, he thought that he was hardly recognizable. He still had his glasses on and that probably helped with finding the Harry Potter from District 12 in the man in the mirror, but Ginny told him they'd fix his eyes when they arrived at the Training Center. So soon enough he'd lose even that.<p>

"It's nothing having to do at all with aesthetics," Ginny explained to him in response to the troubled look that came upon his features when she mentioned ridding him of his eyewear. "It's more for your protection than anything. What if you were to lose your glasses in the arena? What if they were broken? They're just a weakness right now, Harry. We need to be practical."

They met up with Malfoy and his stylists soon before their train arrived at the station in the Ministry outside of the Center. His fellow tribute had the same sort of markings on his own features and was dressed in the exact same attire that Harry was. The only difference was that instead of gold paint, Draco had more of a bronze or copper paint - an orange, like the heart of a flame more so than the edges like the gold highlighting Harry's features. They met one another's gaze with a bit of steely resolve; as though while in with their stylists both had come to the conclusion to hate one another as politely as possible. At least then it would be easier to be a team. So when Sirius came out of his compartment to join them and leaned down to whisper quietly into their ears, "Smile," they both obliged and when they pushed the train doors open to exit onto the platform and greet the public for the first time, Draco even put a supportive hand on the small of Harry's back.

It was chaos. Harry had never seen such a gathering of people before in his life, except for maybe at the Reaping, and even then there were far less people in District 12 than there were in this small part of the Ministry. And they were all so strange - with tattoos and weird styles, bright clothes and brighter hair, large heeled shoes and some with platforms, wide skirts and short pants, shirts that looked like patchwork was done to it on purpose despite it not needing it and elaborate designs on dresses that revealed far too much on whoever was wearing them. And they were all extending toward him, greeting him with his name and waving, wishing him luck. If it wasn't for Draco's steady hand and Sirius's way of parting crowds to walk past, it would have been easy for him to feel like he'd get lost in the sea of arms and voices. There were just so many people and each of them seemed delighted to see him - happy, like he was someone to be celebrated instead of a pig being sent off for slaughter. And wrong as that was, Harry had never felt that before. He wasn't quite sure how to react to it all.

They were within the walls of the Training Center soon enough, though, and as soon as they rounded a corner, taking them out of the sight of the public, Malfoy removed the hand that had been guiding him through the crowds. Again, the emptiness that had flooded him on the train came pouring back and he looked up with the same feeling of panic before regaining himself. He needed to stop that. He was in need of comfort; he was still scared, didn't quite know what was going on or how to handle it, and it didn't all seem quite real. But the last person he needed to seek solace in was Draco Malfoy. There was a very good chance that by the time this was all said and done, one or both of them would be dead. And though he had saved his life once before and established that connection in their lives, there was no need to try and salvage a friendship out of the wreckage that was his failure to do much other than stop the bleeding. Malfoy had healed on his own; Harry hadn't spoken to him since. There was no need to actually get as cozy as Sirius wanted them to appear. It was actually probably worse. It just gave the other teams more of an emotional advantage.

So when Draco caught his eye, a questioning look on his features at the small hitch in Harry's breathing, the young brunette made a purposeful move to his godfather's side, casting off Draco's offer at civility in favor of staying distant. It wouldn't do to get attached; he needed to remember that this wasn't just a two week vacation. It was a fight to the death and while he would need Draco's help, losing him shouldn't be something that would kill him. He needn't get attached like that - he had lost enough in his life. So he fell behind to walk beside his godfather, reaching out to grab his hand, seek some comfort. Sirius jumped slightly and looked over at Harry to see who had grabbed him and Harry could see his shoulders visibly relax as a lazy smile came onto his features as he took in the sight of his godson. "Almost didn't recognize you there, Harry," he said with a bit of a smirk. "Thought for a moment you might be Rita."

"I don't think she's that fond of you, Sirius," Harry replied coolly and he grinned at the sound of Sirius's laugh.

"I think you're right," Sirius mumbled quietly. "Somehow, I think I'll manage." Then he squeezed Harry's hand briefly before releasing it. And though Harry wished he'd hold on just a little longer, wished he'd sit down and hug him again, comfort him, he didn't ask why Sirius let go. He knew why. It was the same reason anyone would be doing anything for the next few weeks. Publicity. If it had been Draco's hand he'd grabbed, it would have been encouraged. He couldn't go around acting like he was closer to Sirius than his companion when his companion was supposed to be his best friend. Apparently even in private. Great. That was positively perfect.

But he didn't complain. He just took the dropped hand as easily as he could, keeping his head up as he walked with his mentor to an ornately decorated glass elevator that he knew from stories through the grapevine were supposed to take them up to their new living quarters where they'd then meet up with their stylists who would get them prepped for their formal introduction ceremony. Once that passed, they'd head back and in the morning, training started for their interviews. And after that it was the real deal. Weapons training. Survival skills. All the things that Harry just knew he was going to fail at. The first morning of official weapons training was also the day they would get their wands.

Everyone was guaranteed a wand. Unlike other weapons - knives and spears and other things that were left around purely for the purposes of hunting game (a competitor could be killed by Sectumsempra alone but knives and spears always helped with food and injuring opponents) - wands were the one weapon every competitor started the Tournament with. It was part of what made the beginning of the Tournament the most dangerous part. There was a thirty second period left so that competitors could run as far from their enemies as they could. No wands. No magic. No violence. But after that thirty seconds, it was a battlefield: whoever was near you was free game. Some tributes used this to their advantage - they ganged up on higher scoring tributes or took the time to start quick alliances. Some even used it as a suicide mission. But the smart ones, the ones that wanted to last through the first day...they got the Hell out of there. Quickly.

Of course by this point, wandwork was still a little rusty. None of them were used to using magic - it was illegal to use it outside of the Hunt and besides, no one was issued an official wand. After the Tournament was over, Harry knew the Ministry would take the wands and display them in a museum. Then at the beginning of the next year's Tournament, they would be snapped to make room for new 'artifacts' and only pictures of the past wands and videos of them being used in the Hunt would remain. Other than that, it'd be hard to prove they existed at all.

"You all right there, Potter?" Malfoy asked quietly when Harry entered the elevator and stepped up to stand beside him.

"Like it matters," Harry shot back and Malfoy just responded with a look that Harry couldn't quite read. Sirius just shushed them both, though, and went back to talking animatedly with Rita about something or another. A few seconds later, Ginny and a dark haired woman with elaborate eye make-up and deadly looking nails that Harry assumed was Draco's stylist stepped into the small compartment. Ginny gave him a small smile and reached out to give his hand a tight squeeze. Then the doors to the elevator slid closed and the small glass compartment shot up, carrying them up past floor after floor after floor. Harry could feel his throat tightening with each passing level. He felt like time was just zooming by - each ten seconds felt like one, each minute just a blink of an eye, and though he had slept since the Reaping, it felt like he hadn't had time to sit down again since he first woke up on that morning. He was exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, and he felt entirely drained. And to make it worse life just wouldn't slow down and it felt like he was just speeding through the motions, speeding through the process, and pretty soon he would be out there on the field. He wished time would just...stop. Just for a few minutes. Just stop. Give him time to catch up to reality. But as the elevator slid to a slow stop, it occurred to him that apparently he wasn't going to get that wish granted to him. This wasn't his game. He didn't have the right to control time. Only the Gamemakers could do that. Well, and Prime Minister Riddle but honestly Harry didn't like to think much about him. No one did.

The doors opened to their floor and Harry scrambled for a moment looking for a hand to hold and settled on just finding the convenience of Ginny's again. She gave him a warm smile though to her credit she did cast a curious look at Draco, as though wondering why the act had been dropped. Harry just ignored this, though, and sought solace in the hand of someone he was comfortable calling a friend. For once, it felt like things finally made sense. This was someone who wouldn't turn away; this was someone who would give him some comfort. And it was nice. Really nice.

They stepped into the room together, still hand in hand, though their fingers weren't entwined and that seemed to be the one thing keeping Sirius from snatching Harry away from the young redhead he was now clinging to for dear life. Whatever. He was content with his stylist's smooth palm against his own, the warmth of it calming the rapid pace of his heart. It was the first thing in a long time that felt normal. And so long as Ginny didn't pull away, he would steal her warmth for a little while.

The room, though, was enough distraction that he didn't think anyone but Sirius really noticed the pair's clasped hands. It was beautiful. Harry had never seen a place so well-adorned before in his entire life, including Sirius's house in the Victor's Village back home and that was supposed to be the nicest place in District 12. Everything in the small flat they had just arrived in was just...clean. Clean and bright and orderly, like if a speck of dust dared to make an appearance, it would be terminated before it found a surface to stick to. And everything was so fancy; so up-to-date. The living space alone with an L-shaped couch, large-screen television, several armchairs, a beautiful glass coffee table, and bowls filled with snacks and fruit that would feed an entire District was enough to get Harry's jaw to drop slightly in awe. That didn't take into account the dining room, the panels adorning the walls with speakers to take orders, the spacious bedrooms each person was assigned, the bathrooms with bathtubs that looked more complicated to maneuver and fill with the panels on the walls than the average hunting snare. The entire thing was just...nice. The nicest living space he'd ever been in, that much was certain.

"Wow," came a small voice from the other side of the room and Harry turned to see Malfoy tracing over the edges of a metal panel on the wall with his fingers, staring at it with a mixture of anger and awe. It took Harry a moment to remember where Draco came from - the Seam, where he wasn't rewarded with food that came at his beck and call, where the luxury of a clean place to sit and relax was denied to him. Maybe Sirius's house wasn't as nice as the room they were in now, but in comparison to where Malfoy grew up, it was a paradise. He wondered how it all looked from his point of view; judging by the look on his face, probably nothing that could be taken in a positive light.

However, his voice seemed to snap everybody back to Earth and Sirius cleared his throat to catch everyone's attention. "Yes, well, it's all very pretty," he said and Harry couldn't help but note the same bitter tone in his voice that he'd come to find was usually in Malfoy's as his godfather looked around the room again, "but we'll have time to admire it later. For now, Harry, Draco, we have to get you two prepared for the opening ceremony. From what I understand, your stylists have something very special lined up for you guys..." Ginny squeezed Harry's hand lightly and like clockwork, Draco's eyes were drawn immediately to the pair of them. He could see his companion's jaw clench and knew then and there that style choices were probably not what he wanted to be thinking about right about then. Harry couldn't help but agree; he'd rather get some sleep. But Ginny's mischievous grin was enough to peak his interest so he just smiled back at her as Sirius added, "But no spoilers." Then he cast each young man a tight smile and said, "I'll be out for some last minute preparation as we're heading down to where your chariot will be waiting. And Merlin do I wish I was being sarcastic." He shook his head. "In the meantime - I'll leave you two in the capable hands of these lovely young ladies. And may the odds, blah, blah, blah. See you soon."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Hi, it's me again! So sorry about this guys! Just leaving the note to let you know that I have NOT abandoned and it's probably just writer's block/college stress getting the best of me. (: But I shall move forward! Thank you to everyone who has read and stayed loyal. You're amazing and your reviews have all made me smile so wide. It means the world to me. This is just a small update since it's been so long since I've given you one. The interviews are coming up next, then training, and then we'll get into the Arena. I'm sorry if it feels like it's taking too long or dragging. I'm trying my best. This adds a bit of dynamic but think of it as a teaser. I know I said that for the last one. We'll be having a lot of teasers? I'll edit them all together later. (: Thanks!

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><p>"How do you feel about fire, Harry?" Ginny asked as she ran her fingers through his hair, staring at both of their reflections in the mirror of the changing room that Sirius had ushered them into quickly and making a face that brought the smallest of smiles to Harry's own lips.<p>

"Dunno," he responded. "It's hot. Burns things. It's flame-y." Ginny chuckled and he swatted her hand away. "I'm not afraid of it or anything if that's what you're asking. Why? Do you plan on seeing if Malfoy and I really can be reborn from our ashes?"

"Maybe," came the playful response and suddenly Harry found his grin slipping from his face. "But let's get you dressed first, Mr. Potter. Before we start worrying about turning you to ash."

He was starting to figure out that getting him dressed was always going to be sort of a tall order. While his outfit coming into the Center wasn't particularly complex, it was still exceptionally nice and taking it off felt like handling a suit made from china. He didn't want to grasp it too harshly for fear of tearing or wrinkling and his style team didn't have the same worries. What resulted was a little bit of a struggle, Harry trying to be delicate with something nice while his style team just tried to tear it off of him as quickly as possible. They did have a limited amount of time, after all, to get him dressed and in the chariot and then back to change and prep for his interview and then of course out to the actual interview again. It was all very complicated and Harry didn't understand why they had to be running around all the time but Cho just tried to explain to him that it was all publicity, publicity, publicity. The more Harry ran around, the more people were able to catch a glimpse of him, size him up before he ever got on screen. For reasons he couldn't put his finger on, this made him very uncomfortable. But it at least got him to stop fighting every time the style team moved to rip an article of clothing off of his body.

But getting him undressed was only the half of it. Thankfully they'd already done all the paint, all the cleaning on the train, though that didn't stop them from touching up his swirls and scrubbing and refining bare patches of skin anyway. Then they got to work on his hair, trying to get the messy bits to lay flat (and inevitably failing and moving on only when Ginny said it was fine) and working the rest back so that he looked a little windswept. As if he were already rushing down the lane in the chariot and the wind was just naturally pushing his hair back. Copious amounts of spray kept the look in place as they shuffled him around and up and down trying to make sure that it would keep, and when they were done pushing and prodding at his hair, Ginny walked in with a black outfit on a hangar and a pair of combat boots.

And that was when Harry got at his most uncomfortable. He knew that people tried to sexualize their tributes in order to gain sponsors - "sex sells" was something that Sirius told Harry year after year after year as they watched the opening ceremonies together and studied what each tribute was put into. People were interested in the healthy curves and muscles of who they were about to see and if the tribute didn't have that, they tried hard to make it look like they at least could. The suit that Ginny brought in just then was shiny - reflective, like plastic - and it looked a lot...tighter than anything Harry had previously tried to put on. His mind immediately flashed to an image of he and Draco wearing these suits just for Ginny to have them burn off or something similar and turn to ash. Like coal. Like the mines. He grimaced. He didn't think he could "do" naked in front of an audience.

"Oh don't give me that look," Ginny chastised when she noticed the wince, handing him the hangar. "I promise whatever running's through that skull of yours is not nearly as bad as what it is. Just put the suit on, slip on the boots, and I'll explain the rest on the way."

He didn't argue; what was the point of arguing? He just took the suit and stripped his robe there in the room. He had no shame about his body; he didn't want to be naked in front of the entire nation, sure, but he still had no shame about his body, especially with the people who had spent the last few hours getting into every crevice of it. Ginny watched him with a slightly bemused smile as he pulled the black fabric onto his body. As predicted, it was skin-tight. There was very little separation between fabric and skin and though there was thankfully a cupped, hardened area near his crotch so it didn't hug everything that it could have, it didn't leave much to the imagination. After lacing up the combat boots, it looked very much like he had just been painted black and given a cup and shoes to wear. His arms, however, were also kept bare - probably so that the audience could see the swirls that painted his skin.

"Come on," Ginny ushered as he took his time lacing the boots. "We've got to meet Mr. Malfoy and Astoria in about...thirty seconds ago. Huh." She lurched forward suddenly and grabbed his shoulder. "You can finish tying later. Cho, grab his cape. I still have to explain about the fire."

The fire. Great. He was going to be naked. He could just feel it. Naked and in a cape. The only comfort he reaped from that fact was that he was not going to have to suffer through it alone.

He didn't ask, though, for fear of confirming this disaster of a prediction. He just walked, willing the loose ties on his shoes not to come free less he trip or something else stupid. The world needed to see him as frightening. It was hard to be frightened by someone who tripped over his own laces.

He followed Ginny to the elevator only to hear her swear when it opened and was open. "They must already be down there," she said, pulling Harry into the elevator with her (he was starting to get really sick of being pulled around). "Harry, dear, hit the button for the ground floor. Right there on the bottom." He did as instructed but didn't say anything. He feared the harsh words that rested on the very tip of his tongue. "I'm sorry for the rush, Harry, normally we'd have much more time but your hair is just impossible and then Astoria and I just HAD to have this idea with the capes and - oh the capes, where is Cho?" As if right on cue, the small brunette slipped into the elevator right before the doors closed, a wrapped hangar in hand. "Oh there you are, dear," Ginny continued. "Wonderful. Now, Harry, what Cho has here is a cape. It's black like your suit and made of the same substance - notice, it breathes slightly and it's completely non-flammable. It won't burn in a fire." It wouldn't? He could feel his countenance ease. Not naked. He was not going to be naked. Thank Merlin. "The cape, however, unlike your suit has been soaked in a chemical solution that will allow for it to react with a flame that Astoria and I have created. Don't worry. It won't burn you. It will just give the effect of you being on fire." She beamed at him and, not sure what kind of reaction she was expecting, Harry just smiled back. "Get it? Like coals! They catch on fire and then what do they do?"

"Turn to ash?" Harry suggested, his mind flickering back to the naked idea, and Ginny swatted the back of his head.

"They burn red hot, Harry," she said. "You'll see what I mean."

He hoped so. Because really all this fashion stuff went right over Harry's head; he didn't know the first thing about any of it and with what it sounded like, it was FAR more complicated than he ever expected. He wished he could dive right back into that old suit jacket that he wore at the Reaping. It wasn't made of fancy fabric that would catch fire and not burn, but at least it was familiar.

The elevator made a soft noise as they reached the ground floor and the doors opened to a rush of cool air and noise. All of the twenty-three other tributes were standing around waiting and talking while outside, the street was being cleared and chariots were being set up. Draco and Astoria were lurking to the side on the left of the room near the elevator, just talking, and when Ginny, Harry, and Cho made their entrance into the room, a look of complete relief came over Astoria's features. "I thought you weren't going to make it for one terrifying second," she gushed, cupping Ginny's cheeks in her hands and kissing her on the apple of each. "I was just telling Draco here about my fears and he said Harry was probably being difficult-" At this, Harry glared at Draco who just gave a shrug in response, "-and I just feared that wasn't the case and it was just something trivial like a discussion about the suit."

"Hair," Ginny explained and Astoria gave her a look as though she understood completely and it was then that Harry was able to take in what his fellow tribute was wearing. Basically the same thing - they kept the bronze on his skin and other than a few bronze specks that littered his torso, he was in the exact same garb that Harry himself was, though definitely looking more thin than muscular and with an air of complete resentment in being stuck in such an outfit. While the two girls blabbed away, Draco looked at Harry with a smirk and repeated, "Hair?"

Harry shrugged. He didn't know how to respond to that without getting an argument started and if he remembered correctly, Sirius wanting them at least acting like friends. Thankfully, then Ginny and Astoria turned around and they got to situating the actual capes.

They were heavy. Harry felt himself sag backwards for a second before he regained his ground and he actually reached out to help Draco stay upright. Whatever chemical they had been soaked in evidently didn't want to come out and while that was good for not getting burned, it wasn't so good for say, walking. "You won't be walking though, dearests," Astoria commented when Harry pointed it out. "You'll be standing in a chariot and you'll look radiant." He doubted it but since Ginny refused to light the capes until right before their chariot left, he supposed he would just have to listen to them. The thing was, though, he had very little else to do before it was their turn to take the stage than listen to Ginny and Astoria. They were just full of information. About how to act. How to present themselves. What the capes would feel like.

"You must remember not to fidget too much with the capes or they'll fall off," Ginny was saying and then Astoria would chime in with, "And don't worry if the flames go out, the heat will retain in the capes and turn them red."

"Like coals," Ginny piped up, smiling at Harry.

"Yes, of course like coals," Astoria grinned in response.

"And remember to act like friends."

"The best of friends. Hold hands, actually, if you could-"

"Don't give us that look, it looks really good to the press."

"-and smile! You both have such lovely smiles and it'd be a shame not to share them."

"Because we have so much to smile about," Draco griped, vocalizing exactly what Harry was thinking but if the women noticed his bitterness, they didn't say anything. They just advised to stay positive and try to have fun with it; it was the last fun they were going to have until they won, Ginny reminded gravely, so they might as well seize the opportunity.

"That's if we win," Harry corrected quietly and after that they all fell silent until it was time to load the chariot.

"You'll be fine," Ginny said softly while Astoria went to comfort the thestrals that would be pulling them. "Now stand still while I light you."

Harry and Draco exchanged quick, panicked glances. Though Harry trusted his stylist and he had no doubt that Draco trusted his as he had let the damn woman play with his hair for Merlin's sake, one tended to feel a bit of panic before getting set on fire, and their shared look said what they didn't want to speak aloud: _I'll pull yours off if you pull off mine_. But when they both did actually go up in flames, Harry scarcely felt a thing. There was a hot rush up his back and for a moment he reached out for Draco's cape but it faded after a moment into a gentle almost tickling sensation. He grabbed Draco's arm instead and murmured that he should help him up and into the chariot.

When they were finally situated and the panic had settled, Harry had to admit - the effect the flames gave was sort of cool. Since he couldn't study his own reflection, he studied his partner's and it was...it was brilliant. The flames reflected off the suit and the flamed pattern that adorned Draco's pale skin and with the throwaway look of his hair, he looked like he just was the flame. Like...like a phoenix. As though to confirm this idea, at the last minute Ginny handed something up to Draco and said, "Don't forget to hold hands." When Harry looked at his partner next, he was pinning a phoenix pin to the shoulder of his suit and leaned over to do the same for Harry.

"Scared, Potter?" he said quietly as he adjusted the pin, a smirk creeping up onto his features.

"You wish," Harry responded without missing a beat and Draco gave a genuine chuckle. The chariot lurched as their time to enter the square finally came and with a final shove from Ginny, she finally got the two to lace their fingers together and plant smiles on their faces. _Well_, Harry thought as the chariot began moving and he squeezed Malfoy's hand tighter to keep himself upright, _here goes nothing_.

The sound from the crowd was deafening. For a moment, just a moment, Harry shrunk away from it, and then just like that he was standing tall again and it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he heard a bark-like laugh come from his companion at how startled he was. There were people everywhere. Standing in the streets being held back by force-field like walls, in stands, surrounding them on both sides and in the back and in front on archways that extended across the street. There were torches lit, soft light, and the click of cameras lit up the stands, but even with the relative light, it just took Harry glancing over at Draco to know that the pair of them lit up the street as the thestrals galloped through the crowd. Harry kept Ginny's notes in mind and smiled widely, especially when he started hearing his and Draco's names being chanted, people calling to them, wanting them to notice them. Without trying, they drew attention to themselves, and with trying, they kept that attention and for a moment, Harry realized what Ginny and Astoria had just done for them. It wasn't just a statement - a statement saying that if you burn us, we'll just rise from the ashes - it was also a chance. A chance to be noticed. A chance to stand out. A chance to, for once, be remembered for more than just a giant rule change in the Hunt. A chance at sponsors and likability, a chance to be...adored. A chance to survive.

They were being showered by the light of candles, by the petals of roses and other flowers, of money and candy and praise. The fact that people tried to find their names was alone something spectacular and even though at that moment Harry was clinging to the hand of the person he felt the most sick around about to enter one of the most gruesome events he had ever heard of before in his life, he could see where Ginny could get the idea that they could have fun. Because at that moment, he didn't just look radiant; he felt it. He exchanged smiles with Draco and then the pair of them lifted their entwined fingers to the crowd as if to say here we are. And we're here to stay. The crowd went wild.

When the chariot came to a halt at the end of the lane, completing the semi-circle of tributes with Draco and Harry in the very center, their capes went out, the chemical having burned off slightly and leaving as explained a hot red glow that made Harry feel warm in the night air. His face hurt from all the smiling but he kept it up until the crowd quieted down and President Riddle took the stage. And like that, Harry went from feeling radiant to feeling like a piece of coal about to get thrown into a red hot fire. And though he didn't need to hold Draco's hand, he didn't let go. He just squeezed tighter and felt a bit of relief when he felt some returned pressure.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the President spoke, and his voice was high, almost like the hiss of a snake, and an eery, lazy sort of smile adorned his lips. "Please welcome the twenty-fourth tributes of the fifty-sixth annual Witch Hunt!"

The crowd went wild again and the President took his seat, his duty done. As he sat back, another man with skittish eyes and an awkward countenance jumped out of his own seat, his eyes darting every which way as though he was terrified to be addressing the crowd. As the noise died down a bit, though, he seemed to collect himself and beneath the turban that covered most of his head, Harry was able to recognize him as Quirinus Quirrell, a Gamemaker that had became quite popular through the years for his creative ideas and unique taskplanning skills that added a bit of spice to the Hunts he was most a part of. "L-Ladies and g-gentleman," he started, his voice cracking a bit and he paused for a moment to clear his throat. "Pardon me. Ladies and gentlemen of Districts One through Twelve. We welcome you to our humble city." The crowd erupted and Quirrell jumped; Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes and hoped it didn't show on camera. Beside him, Draco smiled softly. "In just a few short hours, we will join you on stage with the legendary Gilderoy Lockhart to get to know a little about each of you and what you will bring to our Hunt this year. In the spirit of unity, authority, and courage, we welcome you. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The crowd screamed. They cheered. Music played and the chariots lurched forward again into a new building where Harry knew he would be dolled up even further and made to give a five minute interview on live television. And though he should have felt as he did before - free, radiant, untouchable - instead he just felt a cold chill run through his body. It was hard to be reminded why they were there - and in the spirit of unity, authority, and courage his ass! They were there out of fear. Fear of another rebellion. Fear of the fall of the Ministry. Fear of someone finally standing up like District Thirteen had done so many years ago and the end of the Hunt being realized. He glanced over at Draco to see if his sentiments were shared but the other man's face had again fallen into an unreadable mask. Feeling a bit rejected, Harry looked away and gave a few final waves before the chariot disappeared under the rooftop of the new building.


End file.
